


words that became hard to say

by defcontwo



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's the thing about growing up like they have, though. </p><p>You get pretty used to the line between wanting and having; you get pretty used to how wide and vast and unsurmountable it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	words that became hard to say

**Author's Note:**

> Five times it was almost talked about and one time it finally was.

(05)

The summer he turns nineteen is maybe the worst of his life. It's a hard summer, one of the hottest in recent memory -- the heat is heavy, oppressive, a weight to the Brooklyn air like taffy pulled well past its snapping point. He usually looks forward to the warmer months, a welcome reprieve from the cold, wet winter seeping its way into his lungs, leaving him laid up in bed, every cough shuddering through him like wind through a window pane. 

But this summer doesn't make him feel healthier, feel stronger. 

All it does is make him feel weighted down -- make him feel weak. His mother is a ghost at his back, nurturing and bright and missed with every slow, aching second. The earth on her grave is still fresh and he has to stop himself at least two or three times a day, the words _I have to get home to mom_ drying up in his throat. 

He's living with Bucky, now. They're as in each other's pockets as much as they've ever been, day in and day out and sometimes it's great but other times -- other times, it's all they can do to keep from tearing each other's throats out. 

They almost stop being friends, that summer. 

He doesn't understand it. Maybe Bucky doesn't understand it either, from the way his mouth twists into something bitter and confused when he doesn't think Steve is looking, from the way Bucky is too everything, too jittery, his leg tapping out a persistent beat against the nearest leg of the table Steve is trying to draw on. 

"Cut it out, Bucky," Steve says, but it comes out a lot sharper than he meant to and Bucky's face darkens. 

"Sorry, your majesty, didn't know you needed absolute silence to draw the same apple you've drawn five times already this week," Bucky bites out, standing up from the table quick enough to jostle it. 

"I'm trying to get the angles right," Steve says but he knows Bucky isn't listening, not really. "It'd be a little easier if you weren't moving the table around so much." 

They're going to fight. They've been fighting a lot, lately. Snappy and hawkish and too tense by far and every time Steve thinks they've settled, gone back to normal, something ugly and needling rears up between them and then they're at it again. 

It's the proximity, maybe. 

Bucky stalks up to him, leaning down into his space, looking all the world as if he's going to start something and then he just -- he just deflates, shoulders slumping and his whole body slumping with it. He falls forward, a little, and then they're forehead to forehead, Bucky bracing himself with a hand to the back of Steve's neck. "Jesus, what's wrong with us lately?" 

Steve shrugs and they both move with it. "Dunno." 

But he thinks maybe he does know. Because Bucky is looking at him with eyes that are a little too bright, a little too intent and Steve can't stop looking at Bucky, at his lips, at the thin, white t-shirt spread tight across the broad expanse of his shoulders, at the stubble that he hasn't been nearly as diligent about shaving lately; Bucky is his fixed point and Steve is just doing his best to stay in orbit. 

Here's the thing about growing up like they have, though. 

You get pretty used to the line between wanting and having; you get pretty used to how wide and vast and unsurmountable it is. Steve has always wanted to be brave but there's being brave and then there's just being plain old shit stupid and that's another line he can't cross, not when it could ruin his best friend's life. 

"Steve," Bucky says, low and rough, one thumb stroking the back of Steve's neck carefully, thoughtlessly, and Steve shivers with it. 

"Bucky," Steve says and there's a warning to it, a note of caution that Steve hates himself for. 

"Yeah," Bucky says before shaking himself, pulling away an inch and then another and it takes a lot for Steve to keep from pulling him back in. "Yeah. I'll let you get back to your drawing." 

(They get along better, after that. 

But they have to shake themselves out of each other's orbit to do it; Steve signing up for art school and spending long hours in the college studio and Bucky working even longer hours at the garage and it gets easier, Steve tells himself, with some distance, with some space. 

They're on the same page now, at least. 

Steve's lying, though. 

It doesn't get any easier). 

(04) 

It's four in the morning, maybe, or something like it. The sky is just beginning to turn from deep, pitch black to a dusky purple and Steve's woken up by the creaking of his front door and he sits up in bed, blinking the sleep from his eyes as the shape just inside the door sharpens, solidifies. He makes out tall broad shoulders and army green; the only person in the world that he knows like the back of his own hand. 

Bucky. 

"Hey, Buck," Steve croaks out. "Whatcha doin' here? Thought you were shipping out." 

"I am," Bucky says, and it comes out a whisper. He clears his throat. "Soon. I just. Y'know. Thought I'd say goodbye." 

"Thought we already did that," Steve says. 

Bucky steps closer, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants. "Yeah. Just…I don't know, pal." 

Bucky trails off and Steve imagines that he can see the uncertain set to his mouth, the smudges under his eyes. It's too dark for that, of course, but he'd like to think that he knows Bucky well enough by now, that his minds can fill in the gaps like he would when shading in a drawing. 

Bucky perches at the foot of Steve's bed, looking too big and out of place in a way that he never has before. Like there's something inside of him that's too big to be contained within his skin stretching him out and Steve doesn't know if it's the war or the leaving or -- or the other thing, the thing they haven't put a name to but lives rooted deep down in his core like an old hurt nonetheless, that's as familiar to him now as his winter cough. 

"I might…I might not…" 

"Shut up," Steve says, clenching his fists tight in bedsheets. "Don't even say it, Buck." 

"Steve," Bucky says, exhaling loudly, taking on that tone that's equal parts exasperation and fondness. "We both know it's true and pretending it's not is just…it's shit stupid, you know that? I might not make it back. Pretending like that's not a possibility ain't gonna make this any easier." 

But it's not. 

It's not a possibility in Steve's mind. The idea of a blank shape in his life where James Buchanan Barnes used to be, it's too vast and too terrifying a loss to even begin to wrap his mind around and his subconscious jerks away from it and his whole body jerks with it, recoiling sharply enough to hit his head on the wall. 

"Ow, shit," Steve says, rubbing idly at the back of his head and Bucky huffs a laugh, moving closer and raising up a hand as if to check Steve for damages and whatever it was that was hanging between them, that weighted tension, it's broken now. 

"Try not to fall into a ditch without me or something, jeez, Stevie," Bucky says, a smile in his voice even if Steve still can't see it in the early morning light. 

"Since when are there ditches in Brooklyn?" 

"If anyone could find one and then fall into it, it'd be you." 

"Jerk," Steve mutters, out of habit more than anything else. 

He can see Bucky better now that he's closer, can smell the tobacco on his breath and the perfume from his date clinging to his uniform and he was right about the smudges under his eyes, the smirk lingering around the edges of his mouth that's more sad than anything else. A strand of hair has fallen into Steve's eyes and he moves to shift it but Bucky beats him there, fingers roughened from a lifetime of hard work, brushing the hair away and back and then Bucky's lips are pressed to his forehead, soft and barely there and Steve sucks in a breath but it doesn't last long, barely a second and then Bucky's moving away, like he was never there at all. 

There are words stuck deep in Steve's throat, something about Bucky and that summer and maybe something about Doctor Erskine, about what Steve's signed up for because it's supposed to be a secret, sure, but there's never been a single thing that was his that wasn't also Bucky's and he's never wanted it to be any other way and it feels wrong not to say anything, but at the same time -- he doesn't need Bucky worrying about him, not when he's gotta keep himself alive. 

"Take care of yourself, Bucky." 

"Yeah, you too, Stevie," Bucky murmurs and then he's getting up and slipping out the front door. 

(03) 

"That Agent Carter's a real piece of work," Bucky says as they both watch Peggy thoroughly school Dum-Dum in billiards from across the bar. Dum-Dum is flustered, bright red from the booze and from the embarrassment because he'd talked a big game and now he's losing pretty spectacularly. 

Peggy stands just to the side, leaning lightly against her cue stick, a carefully bland expression on her face that's belied by the amused twitch of her lips. She's beautiful and sort of terrifying but Steve thinks maybe that's what he likes best about her. 

"Yeah, she really is," Steve says, taking a long pull from his pint of beer. 

"She likes you," Bucky says simply. There's nothing to his tone, no question or condemnation. Just a simple statement of fact but it still makes Steve hunch his shoulders in. 

"You think so?" 

Bucky snorts. "Don't play stupid, Steve, it's not a good look on ya. You know she does. You like her too, don't you?" 

He does. It took him by surprise, how much he's come to care for her in such a short time. He's never felt this way about a woman before but she is beautiful and sharp and a crack shot and she looks at him like she understands him, like she understands what it is to struggle and struggle and build yourself up so that the struggle can't drag you down anymore. 

Peggy looked at him like he was worth something that day back with the grenade and he's never forgotten it, that look. It's lodged deep inside of him and it's never getting out, like a splintered bullet. There are only two other people other than his ma who've ever looked at him like he's meant something before the serum; one of them was shot dead and the other is sitting next to him. 

"Yeah, I really do." 

Bucky elbows him in the side. "Don't look so -- look. I'm happy for you, pal." 

"Yeah?"

Bucky meets his gaze dead on when Steve turns to face him and there's multitudes here, words they've never said. "Yeah. She's impressive as hell. Exactly the kind of gal I've always thought you should end up with." 

Steve shakes his head, a rueful grin tugging at the corner of his lips. It's a little early to start talking about afters and ending up withs. He'll settle just for a dance, maybe. A chance to see what comes next. 

"And what about you, Buck?" 

Bucky shrugs.

"What about me?" 

(02) 

It's the middle of the night and it's dark in their tent. Falsworth is on watch and Gabe bullied them both into trying to catch a few hours of sleep, but the sleep isn't coming just yet, and Steve's been staring at the tent of the ceiling for over an hour now before Bucky starts talking. 

"Steve." 

"Yeah?"

"Can you do me a favor?" 

Steve shifts uncomfortably. There's a rock stuck just beneath his spine under his sleeping bag but he can't really be bothered to move enough to get rid of it. "Depends. I know what kind of favors you ask after, Barnes." 

"Nothing fancy. I just want you to hold onto something for me." 

"What?" 

A quick toss and then something is landing on Steve's chest, a light weight and a clinking of metal. Bucky's dog tags. 

"Bucky, I can't just -- I can't just _hold onto these_ , you're supposed to wear them, it's regulation." 

"Who gives a shit? We're not a regular unit, Steve, who's checkin'?" 

Something dark and fearful is coiled in Steve's stomach. It's the same feeling he gets every time he sees the way Bucky's face falls when he thinks no one else is looking, the same feeling he gets when Hydra comes up and Bucky's mouth gets tight and his eyes grow haunted. This war is a monster and that monster has chewed his best friend up and spit him out and what Steve's got left -- what Steve's got left is still Bucky, is still trying the best he can but they both know that there's something not the same, that Bucky's bright edges have been dulled, darkened by what happened to him in that warehouse. 

"Why? Why now?" 

"I don't know….I just. Got a feeling, I guess. It's just in case, you know? If anything happens to me…I'd want you to have them." 

"If anything happens to you, you're _supposed_ to be wearing them," Steve says. He closes his grip around the tags, gripping them hard enough that it would have hurt him if he were anyone else, feeling the metal edges digging into his skin. He's angry, suddenly, but angry at who, he doesn't know. 

Angry at Bucky, even though he knows it's not fair, not really. Angry at HYDRA. Angry at a lot of things that he can't vocalize, can't find the right words to make the shapes for what he needs to say. 

"Steve, please," Bucky says, soft but firm. "They're all I got. I'm telling you to take 'em." 

" _Steve_ ," Bucky repeats and there's a desperate edge to it. 

Steve exhales. "Okay. But I'm not going to be happy about it, all right?" 

"Who said anything about you bein' happy? Jesus, don't you know there's a war on, Rogers." 

And just like that, whatever darkness is chased away and Steve can see the glint of Bucky's teeth as he smiles at him in the dim light. Steve wonders if one of these days, they'll stop doing this to each other, to themselves, and he thinks super soldier serum or no, maybe he's never been more bone-deep tired. 

"Shut up, ya jerk." 

(01) 

Peggy's arms are warm and reassuring and he buries his head into the crook of her neck and doesn't even think to be embarrassed at the tears that are surely dampening the finely starched collar of her uniform. He's overstepping boundaries, here, and he thinks maybe he should apologize but she's not complaining just yet so he holds onto her like she's the only thing keeping him upright. 

He loves her. It hits him, right there in that bombed out bar as he cries into her arms over the loss of the only other person he's ever been in love with -- he loves this woman and maybe this should be a relief, maybe it should be a balm to an open, jagged wound but all it does is hurt more because none of this was the way this story was supposed to go. 

Steve draws in a shuddering, gasping breath before pulling away. Straightens his spine and wipes away his tears. 

"Sorry. Uh, thank you. But mostly, I'm sorry, I think I uh…might've ruined your uniform a bit there." 

Peggy shrugs. "Better tears than blood, I say." 

Peggy looks up at him, gaze searching. "Captain. About Sergeant Barnes…" 

She's clever, his Peggy, and sharp as a tack and way too observant to boot. He's not surprised at the understanding in her eyes, the sympathy in the twist of her lips. She wants to say something more but shakes her head, clearly thinking better of it and he's that much more grateful for her all over again. 

"Let's get back to camp, then, shall we?" 

(+1)

"What are those?" 

Steve raises his head to give Sam a stare that's equal parts incredulous and teasing amusement. "What, you're telling me Air Force doesn't recognize dog tags?" 

Sam rolls his eyes, arms crossed over his chest. He nods at the dog tags that Steve's been turning over and over in his hands ever since they checked into this motel a couple of hours ago. "They yours?" 

"No," Steve says. He could leave it at that and Sam wouldn't push. Sam's good about that, about knowing when to take a step back and give them both a breather. Just being around him makes the weight of this that much lighter, that much more bearable. 

But after everything, maybe he owes Sam a little bit of honesty. 

"They're Bucky's. He gave them to me for safekeeping. You know, before. Had 'em stuck in one of the pockets on my belt when I went down. Hell, I don't even know where mine are." 

"Steve, can I ask you something?" 

Steve holds his hands out. "I'm an open book, Sam." 

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure _that_ ain't true, but…" Sam says, trailing off. "Look, man, I'm asking you this because I think maybe no one else has ever asked you this because they didn't think to but if we're gonna go forward, here, someone's gotta do it." 

"Sam, you do know that you're rambling, right?" 

"Yeah, well….maybe if you were in my position right now, dude, you'd be rambling too," Sam says, breaking off into a mutter that's mostly put upon annoyance. "Okay. Bucky. Were you in love with him?" 

The tags are warm in Steve's hands and when he closes his fist over them, he's a million miles and so many years away, in a tent just outside of Bastogne, swallowing back all of the things he should have said but never did. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I was," Steve says. He clears his throat and figures he might as well go all the way with this honesty thing. "Still am." 

"Jesus," Sam says. 

Steve huffs a laugh. Yeah. That about sums it up. 

"Sam…I get…I get that I'm not going to be objective here. I can't be. If you think this is going to be too much, if you need to walk away, I'll understand." 

"Man, shut up," Sam says. "I was asking because I need to know what your stakes are here. You're not getting rid of me that easily. But now that I know that this is, you know, some old school heartbreak shit, I'm thinking maybe you and me need to find a way to get you drunk. Just for one night." 

Steve shrugs, searching for something to say. "Thor insists that Asgardian ale could probably do the trick." 

"Great, let's call up Thor because my life couldn't possibly get any weirder. Can you? Can you call up Thor? No, don't answer that. I think I want to be surprised." 

Steve's shoulders are shaking with laughter and he's lighter than he's been in a long, long time. The words are out there, now. They feel solid, like it's not just something that's living inside of Steve anymore. Not just a figment of his imagination and too many close calls but a real, weighted thing. How he feels about Bucky, how he will always feel about Bucky -- it matters, and he didn't know how badly he needed to share that with someone until right this second. 

"Hey, Sam." 

"Yeah?" 

"Thanks."

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to come chat/cry more about Cap 2, you can find me at my [tumblr!](http://queercap.tumblr.com) :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] words that became hard to say](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2349842) by [wolveheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolveheart/pseuds/wolveheart)




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